Those Left Behind
by Lichaelle
Summary: When a man dies, everyone he knew is affected in one way or another. A series of vignettes about those left behind. Massive spoilers for Changes.


**Karrin Murphy**

When she returns to Harry's boat, Murphy feels happier than she has in a very long time. Besides the obvious relief at the end of the Vampire war, she's anticipating something she's wanted for years. There's a slight bounce in her step, and a smile pops up every few seconds on her lips.

Then she sees the blood. It's splattered on the side of the boat, leaking in rivulets from the body, across the floor, and falling in sick, chilling drips into the lake. Her breathing quickens, and a persistent buzzing sound begins to worm its way into her skull.

Murphy's been a cop for a long time. She knows how much blood someone can lose and live. On a gut level, she knows.

It's not logical, it's not right, but she finds herself running, sprinting from the marina, past her car, past everything. She can't hold him, sob over him, scream at him, because that would mean admitting what happened. And Karrin Murphy might be braver than most, but there are some things she cannot face.

**Michael Carpenter**

When he opens his door to find Murphy, he somehow already knows. Helping her calm down is his first priority. Then he calls the police, and does his best to comfort Molly. When Amanda asks if Mister Dresden is in Heaven, Michael answers without hesitation. "Of course he is."

It's later, in the dead of night, when he is hit by it. The house is silent, even Molly's muffled sobs have trailed away into a fitful sleep. He rises and dresses with a restlessness not normal for him. The walk to the car is difficult with his limp, but he doesn't dream of waking anyone else.

He goes to the church, like he has in so many other crises. Hunched on the hard wooden pew, he tries to pray. _Dear God, please_-. The words are caught in a flytrap. At the same time, he can't bring himself to cry. An awful hole of loss and guilt is cracking open in his chest. What if Harry wasn't in heaven? He hates himself as he thinks it, but the thought pins itself to his mind anyway. Lord knows Harry had done things, bad things.

"Everything all right there?"

Michael looks up. An unremarkable man in a janitor's suit leans on a mop. The man smiles. "You just look a little shook up, son."

Michael tries to smile back, but he can tell it comes off more like a grimace. "I… lost someone."

The janitor nods and resumes mopping. "Sorry for your loss." He looks up again and tilts his head. "He's going to a better place, I bet."

The comment hits so close to the core of Michael's hurt that he lets out a small sob. "I hope so. Very much. But I… it isn't sure. He wasn't always- he wasn't a perfect person."

The janitor nods. "It's lucky then, that God doesn't ask us to be perfect." As the man exits, he murmurs, "Harry will be alright."

Michael nods to himself and tries to pray again. Somehow the words come easier this time.

It isn't until the drive home when he realizes he never mentioned Harry's name.

**The Merlin**

"So he's dead then?"

The young warden bobs his head. Arthur notes the shock in the youth's eyes critically. He's never liked Harry Dresden, and the idolization the younger members of the council have succumbed to rubs him like salt on a wound.

Arthur sighs. There is a political crisis stirring in the Balkans, a Jade Court treaty to be considered, and three missing wardens in Somalia. "Well, one less danger to the council, I suppose. Tell Warden Ramirez to look into it." He glares at the warden. "Not too far into it, if it can be helped. We don't need another war, courtesy of some misguided revenge attempt."

The warden nods and leaves, his reproach barely veiled. Arthur concedes to himself that the last comment was perhaps not in the best taste.

Arthur waits for the oak door to his office to gently close. The Jade Court treaty stares up at him from his desk as he massages his temples. Harry Dresden-the bane of his existence for the last ten years- is dead. Empty Night.

He pushes the treaty to the side for a few moments and sits in silent contemplation. Harry was without a doubt a deeply flawed man. He was arrogant, brash, rude, and dangerous. Arthur never liked him.

"Rest in peace, Dresden." Arthur whispers into the still and empty air.

The moment passes, and The Merlin retrieves the treaty, dips his quill in the inkwell, and goes back to work.

**Thomas Raith**

A message comes to House Raith in the night. A nervous youth in a gray cloak hands it to Lara and stammers that it's from Warden Ramirez, for Thomas Raith. Lara breaks the wax and scans the short missive before telling the warden to wait a moment. She walks down the hallways of her villa at a pace perhaps a hair more hurried than usual, and throws the door to Thomas's room open. He's feeding from a delightfully frail blond girl that couldn't be older than fifteen.

"Thomas," she says over the girl's moans, "did you kill Harry Dresden yesterday?"

Her half brother freezes. She narrows her eyes. "Well, someone did, apparently." She lets the door close and returns to the warden.

"No, he did not." She says, and shows him to the door.

She catches Thomas leaving a few minutes later. His face is a pure white, a marble construction of ethereal, chilling beauty. He's wearing Kevlar and has eschewed his favorite saber for a shotgun.

"I thought you didn't care for humans anymore." She comments as she holds the door open for him.

Thomas doesn't dignify her a response. She can see the hunger writhing beneath his perfect skin. There is no grief on his face.

She watches him disappear into the night. Rage is so much easier to feel than grief.

**Gentleman Johnny Marcone**

Marcone frowns at Hendricks and sets down his latte gently on it's saucer. "Dresden is dead?"

Hendricks nods, his face possessing all the emotion of a granite counter top.

Marcone raises his eyebrow. "Please find out who did it. No one should be pulling off hits in this city that I don't know about."

After Hendricks leaves, Marcone finishes his coffee. Each sip is measured and precise.

Marcone doesn't go to the funeral, but he does stop by in the evening and stand next to the grave for an hour. Hendricks and Ms. Gard wait at a respectful distance and exchange glances. The mob boss's breath dissipates into the cold October air as he kneels and places a single daisy on the grave. Then he turns and walks away, his step measured and precise.

While at a red light on the way home, Hendricks looks back at his boss. "Do you miss him?"

Marcone's response is measured and precise. "Of course not."

**Ivy**

"Kincaid."

The mercenary looks up from his newspaper, and sets his coffee down. "Something the matter?"

The archive is one of the most powerful people he knows, but right now she looks like a frail wisp of a girl. Her fingers are clenched in the folds of her nightgown, and her face is pale. "There was an obituary in the Chicago newspaper this morning."

He runs his hands through his hair.

"Were you going to tell me?"

Kincaid winces and tries to hide the guilt he feels flashing across his face. Possible answers flit through his head: I didn't think it was important, you'd find out soon enough, I thought you already knew. He finally picks the truth as he moves to embrace her.

"I couldn't bring myself to tell you," he whispers into her hair.

The Archive is an eternal force, on par with the faerie queens in knowledge, and the White Council in political power. Kincaid holds her silently and lets her sob into his shirt. Because the Archive might be unshakable, but Ivy is not. And if she lets herself grieve for the man who named her, well, no one has to know.

**Ebenezer McCoy**

When the Warden comes to tell him that Harry Dresden has died, Ebenezer McCoy, Black Staff of the White Council, is sitting in his living room polishing a vase. It's a beautiful piece of fairy origin. His daughter gave it to him on his birthday years ago. It must have taken months to make.

It takes seconds to shatter.

The pieces lie in the fading light as McCoy leaves the house, staff clenched tightly in has hand. The wood writhes with fervor. It will have blood tonight.

**The Alphas & Butters**

The Alphas and Butters huddle in a circle around the coffee table. The news came that afternoon, but no one dreamed of canceling their weekly D&D tradition. Georgia said it best, in a mumbling voice as she set up the game. "He would want us to do this."

They play throughout the night, until the sickly yellow light of dawn worms through the blinds. If the smiles are a bit more forced than usual and the words a bit quieter, no one says anything.

**Molly & Mouse**

She's in shock. There are murmurs in the background, something about hiding and the council. She doesn't hear. She slumps to the floor, her limbs dead weight. The lights are suddenly too bright, the sounds too loud, the room too hot. The world around her is battering at her mind. He was her friend, her teacher, and even though she would never tell him, so much more than that. The thoughts jumble through her mind like locusts, over the repetitive mumble of _Harry, Harry, Harry_ on her lips.

Suddenly there is fur in her face and her hands. She clutches the hair as she gives into deep, animal sobs.

Mouse rests his head on her shoulder and gazes at the hazy figure he can see standing helplessly next to her. The dog can't speak in any way that he could be understood. He wills a thought anyway, and hopes Harry can read it in his large brown eyes.

_Hurry Back. They need you._

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_A/N: Sorry if it's a bit rough, but I felt like the roughness conveyed the grief better. If anyone has suggestions for other characters, I might write a few more vignettes. Thanks to Shadewolf7 for beta-ing. _  
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